


we should get jerseys, cause we make a good team

by pureblood_whovian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, F/M, Kidnapping, Mild Gore, Mild Language, it's really not as serious as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pureblood_whovian/pseuds/pureblood_whovian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”Victim has several stab wounds. Dead before she hit the ground,” says Scott, crouching down to examine the mangled body. A pool of blood stretches out from underneath the poor woman’s back, staining the pavement a striking red. Scott frowns, nose upturned at the obviously disgusting smell and looks up at Lydia. “All dressed up with no place to go.”</p>
<p>Scott has a tendency to get over dramatic. Lydia is 80% sure he joined the FBI for the heated car chases and camp international terrorists. The kind that monologue endlessly about shit instead of shooting like anyone with common sense would. The real criminals are nothing like that- something that, unfortunately, no one realises until their first day at the training academy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we should get jerseys, cause we make a good team

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally got an AO3 account. And I decided to post my fanfics from tumblr (i'm pureblood-whovian on there) on here. This is one of my first so be gentle when you read it and it's rubbish. Warnings for a dead body, some descriptions of violence, swearing and really, really cliche lines. Sorry.

 ”Victim has several stab wounds. Dead before she hit the ground,” says Scott, crouching down to examine the mangled body. A pool of blood stretches out from underneath the poor woman’s back, staining the pavement a striking red. Scott frowns, nose upturned at the obviously disgusting smell and looks up at Lydia. “All dressed up with no place to go.”  
   
Scott has a tendency to get over dramatic. Lydia is 80% sure he joined the FBI for the heated car chases and camp international terrorists. The kind that monologue endlessly about shit instead of shooting like anyone with common sense would. The real criminals are nothing like that- something that, unfortunately, no one realises until their first day at the training academy.  
   
“Why have we got this case?” asks Allison, pulling a face at the bitter New York coffee. “She doesn’t look like anyone important.” The throng of paparazzi pushing relentlessly against the police barrier seem to disagree with her observation. Most of the major news outlets are there, babbling away about a murder that they obviously have no information on.  
   
“She was undercover, idiots” sighs Stiles. He rubs his hands together vigorously in an attempt to warm them against the brisk, morning air.  “Maria Hill, working a drugs ring.”  
   
“Which ring?”  
   
“The Alphas.”  
   
“Damn,” says Allison, as Scott whistles appreciatively. “She must’ve been pretty tough to get in with that shitstorm.” Scott nods, staring at the fresh corpse with a new air of respect as he pulls of his gloves. “The Alphas are psycho.”  
   
“Do we have any leads?” asks Lydia, voice dry and hoarse. She really hates the New York mornings. “Apart from the Alphas?” Stiles shakes his head, rubbing his angry red nose and sniffing.  
   
“Nothing. But it won’t be long before someone claims credit.”  
   
“What about time of death?” says Allison. “We could probably extract a list of suspects from that info.”  
   
“Isaac is working on it. They gotta get the body to the morgue first, though.” Scott gets up and groans, hand flying to the small of his back. It’s an old injury, from a nasty shootout in ‘11, and one Lydia watches him aggravate all the time despite strict advice from his doctors. He’s lucky the department still lets him work.  
   
Stiles rolls his eyes, smirking. “Dude, what are you, 80? God, you sound like Al’s granddad.” Allison laughs, spitting out her coffee as she doubles over. She catches Scott’s furious, yet slightly hurt, face, and pats him on the shoulder.  
   
“Poor Scott,” she pouts. Scott flips her and turns away, pulling out his phone.  
   
“I’m calling Danny. At least he isn’t a major douchebag.” Stiles crouches in Scott’s place, examining the area surrounding the body. 

"Do we have any witnesses?" asks Lydia, looking at a sobbing black-haired woman being interviewed by another officer by the police cordon. She feels a pang of sympathy -she knows what it’s like to be so confused. "That lady over there looks…….shaken." Allison looks in that direction and nods, swallowing down the bitter liquid.

"Yeah, that’s Kira. Apparently they were friends. She said it was ‘dark’, and that she couldn’t see the guys face. Not much help." 

"Well, that’s real fucking helpful," scoffs Stiles. “So we got nothing else? No leads, no weapon, no nothing?”

There’s no reply, and the silence says it all. “Wow, what a great murder we got.”

—-

Five years ago, the only friends Lydia had were her trusty computer and the sweet, sweet taste of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. After her father died, she’d dedicated everything to getting her butt to the FBI training academy. Once she was there, she met Stiles, Scott and Allison- the terrible trio who were the only ones that seemed less than intimidated by her impressive intellect. They were, and still are, the only ones who really know her -they know her as Lydia, badass agent instead of Lydia Martin, queen bee and valedictorian.  
   
The rest, as they say, is history.  
   
For the most part, they rose up the ranks together. There was a brief period where Scott had become fascinated with the Logistics department - and a certain young woman in it-, but they’ve sworn a solemn pact to never talk of that traumatising incident again. There was also the time Allison had been stalked by the creepiest fucking freak to ever walk the planet, Matt, but he’d backed off when he’d got shot. Six times.  
   
Danny and Isaac joined later on. When Lydia had first met them, she almost laughed at the two puppy like humans in front of her. Later on in the timeline that had become Lydia’s life, she discovered that Isaac was basically a BAMF and that you never, ever, fuck with Danny unless you want weird ass updates being posted on your Facebook profile.  
   
And then there was Stiles.  
   
Where could Lydia start? His father, the Sheriff, was head of the NYPD. His mother was, and still is, a touchy subject- see the Great Jackson Punching of ’09. He abused pens and wouldn’t sit still, thanks to his ADHD. He didn’t take Lydia’s shit – which was both refreshing and annoying.  He was sweet and caring and……

_Whoa. Stopping there._

There was also the subject of his little crush on her. ……..Okay, maybe it wasn’t that little.  
  
But Lydia likes to think he’s grown out of the days when he’d stare at her longingly across the room and extensively plan out his ten year plan to seduce her in increasingly strange ways. Stiles certainly acts like he has- see the Awe-Inspiring Wooing of Malia Tate of 2012 ( _seriously Scott is obsessed with cataloguing every event in his goddamn life_ ). Not that Lydia cares, or anything. She’s happy for him. Yeah. Totally.  
   
…………..Okay, maybe she does care.

But it’s only because she’s his friend, right? Friends look out for other friends.

To be honest, Lydia doesn’t know quite who she’s kidding, but she supposes she’s quite lucky that despite being in the company of ‘America’s Finest’ they haven’t sniffed out her humongous, thankfully not obvious crush. Yet. It’s not even that big, and will go away eventually.

_—-_

"Hey, Isaac what you got for us?" drawls Stiles, trying to lean on the doorway, but missing the wall and stumbling spectacularly into the room. He straightens up and clears his throat, glaring at the young medical examiner who tries to stifle his laughs. Lydia also struggles to keep a stupid smile off her face.

Isaac stops abruptly at the death glare. “Sorry, dude,” he sniggers. “You’re just so fucking clumsy.” He sighs well naturedly and stares down at the body on his worn down table. “There’s not really much to be honest. Nothing you don’t know. Knife punctured her lungs. Bled out.”  
   
“We need a time of death,” says Lydia, folding her arms and successfully leaning on the doorway. She avoids going in the morgue if she can help it, the place smells of decomposition, grief and death - all the things she despises.  
   
“Uhh, I’m going with somewhere between 2-6 am last night. She’s been dead round about 5 hours now.” Isaac frowns, and pulls off his blood splattered latex gloves, making Lydia want to throw up. “Nasty way to go, if you ask me.” He looks up at Stiles. “You really think it’s the Alphas?”  
   
Stiles nods. “Pretty damn sure.”  
   
“Wow,” sighs Isaac, putting away the equipment. “That’s some deep shit she got into.”  
   
Allison strides in, and waves at Isaac (Lydia doesn’t miss his love struck expression, and she hopes she doesn’t look at Stiles like that), before turning to Stiles and Lydia. “Danny’s picked up some intel.” She lowers her voice. “According to Jackson, Deucalion was operating last night.”

—-  
 

Deucalion is pretty big in the crime world. Blinded by inexperienced street muggers at a young age, he decided to take revenge by forming a crime ring that committed every felony under the sun. 

Yeah. Cause that was the logical thing to do.

Whether it was sensible or not, he made a name for himself. Need a high ranking politician dead? No problem. Want a famous painting busted out the highest security wing at an infamous art museum? Just give them a small deposit. Want an entire club of elite businessmen wiped out? All you’ve got to do is tell them which bomb you’d prefer. The Alpha Pack were happy to do anything – for the right price.

The only trouble was that despite the fact the Alphas have committed many, many crimes nobody can ever tie them to it. There is never any cold, hard evidence and they have everyone from New York to Mongolia in their pockets. The witnesses never show up, the jury always declare innocent and the judge never objects. Sure, everyone knows it was Ennis who slaughtered the virgins in Chicago 2010, but she didn’t go down for it. They never do.

It’s like the NYPD’s version of Moriaty. Except Moriaty is, like, ten times more awesome.

Nearly everyone in the FBI has some form of personal grudge against them. Like Stiles, who wants to get them back for temporarily incapacitating his dad and Lydia…..well, Lydia just thinks they deserve to go away.

—-

"Has Danny got anything else?" asks Stiles. 

"He’s working on it. It’s not exactly like we have detailed addresses and fingerprints for the guy." Allison sighs, turning to look at the body. She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Even if we did, we got nothing on the body tying them to it, am I right, Isaac?" Allison looks expectantly at him.

Isaac shrugs apologetically, covering up said body with the standard lime green sheet of the morgue. “Sorry Al.” 

Lydia groans in frustration. “We’ve got to have something.”

“Well, Danny’s got some info on his main accomplices, but most of it’s wild goose chase shit so it’s gonna take him a while to get to the good stuff.”

At that precise moment, Danny walks in, looking extremely flustered. “Uh guys, you got a visitor waiting in reception,” he stutters, not even bothering to lower his voice in front of Isaac. “He says his name is Deucalion.”

—-

Lydia misses life in the training academy.

She remembers the time Scott and Allison had a sexually charged battle on the climbing frame, and then denied it like they hadn’t been teasing each other in front of everyone. All the times they sat together at lunch and moaned about the same trainers –especially Derek Hale, who seemed to have it out for Stiles in particular. The time Allison basically owned Mr Harris with her complete fluency in French. Or the time Ethan challenged Stiles to a shoot-out in the range, severely under estimating the latter’s talents.

It seems like a lifetime ago, and if Lydia could go back she’d slap herself.

She’d slap her younger self every time she walked straight past Stiles, ignoring his presence. She’d do it every time young Lydia made out with another guy, or when she flirted with the field work professor.  Seriously, how could she have been so completely oblivious to the guy?

Well, Lydia’s paying for it now.

—-

She takes a deep breath before entering the interrogation room. Lydia knows exactly what cocky criminals can be like, how easy it is for them to rile people up and wrap them round their fingers. Contrary to popular belief, she actually _doesn’t_ want a repeat of what happened with Peter Hale last year.

Scott opens the door for her, and Lydia walks, well more struts, in and sits down opposite ‘Deucalion’. She feels Stiles take his place beside her and place the murder file on the table.

“Hello, sir,” says Lydia. “Our agents told us you identified yourself as Deucalion, head of the Alpha Pack, am I correct?”

The man takes a long time to reply, looking her up and down with a predatory glint in his unseeing eyes. She shifts uncomfortably, still feeling his glassy gaze on her even when he moves onto to Stiles. “You would be correct,” he replies, eventually. “However, I am not, and never have been, head of any packs or alphas. I have no idea what this ‘Alpha Pack’ is.”

“Are you saying you aren’t the head of the largest crime ring in America?” Stiles is unable to keep the disbelieving tone out of his voice.

“Of course I’m not, young man. I can’t even see you.”

“Then why exactly are you here?”

Deucalion sighs, leaning back on his chair. “I’m no stranger to being harassed by the police. I’ve come here to provide”- he starts to pull out brown, thick envelopes from his inside jacket pocket-“airtight alibis for anything you might suspect me for, including the unfortunate murder of the poor Maria Hill.”

“How do you know we even suspect you? ”frowns Stiles, folding his arms. He’s right to ask, considering they haven’t even put a BOLO out yet. “We haven’t even told the public she was anyone important.”

“I have a very efficient attorney,” says Deucalion. He taps his fingers lightly on the table. “I’m assuming that once my evidence confirms my alibis you will be getting rid of this…unfounded vendetta you have against me?”

Lydia opens her mouth to say something, something witty when Jackson bursts in wildly. He takes one, furious look at Deucalion and starts yelling hysterical profanities and lunging for him across the table. Stiles is first to react, tackling Jackson and hauling him out of the room, while Lydia flashes an hurried apologetic smile at Deucalion (despite the fact he can’t see) and slams the door behind them.

“Get off me, man!” shouts Jackson, fighting against the strong arm around his body. The other officers in the office look over, alarmed at the noise.

“What the hell was that, Whittemore?” snaps Stiles, releasing him, and looking slightly murderous. “Hm? You can’t just fucking march in and start yelling down a suspect, or don’t you know that, Mister _Senior Agent_?”

“He killed my parents,” growls Jackson, face bright red and livid. Almost everyone in the department knows about his parent’s demise at the hands of the Alpha Pack. “So don’t fucking talk to me like that about it, okay Stilinski? Just get his ass in jail.”

“We’re trying to do that anyway, _dumbass_ ,” hisses Stiles. “So me and Lyds here would appreciate it if you didn’t fucking assault a suspect in the middle of an interrogation.”

Jackson is about to retort scathingly when he frowns, looking to Lydia with a slight smirk on his face. “You call her _Lyds_?”

Lydia blushes furiously ( _what? she likes the nickname!_ ), as Stiles rolls his eyes, looking at little embarrassed himself. “Priorities, douchebag.”

“Excuse me agents,” says a calm, collected voice. Director Deaton is stood behind Lydia, arms folded and wearing a rather unimpressed expression. Lydia usually likes him, she finds him a balancing presence but he doesn’t look like he’s come to deliver good news. Jackson seems to sense it too, as she tenses ready for another confrontation.

“I’ve come to inform that another one of our undercover agents has been killed.” He holds out a file, seemingly unperturbed by their surprised expressions. “Robert Green, also working within the Alpha Pack. Maybe you can ask Deucalion, if he is who he says he is, some questions about this guy.”

“Yes, sir,” Lydia nods. She grabs the file and waits until Deaton leaves before spinning round to face her colleagues again. “Jackson, I’m gonna give you to the count of three to get your ass out of my case or else.” He leaves pretty quickly after that. “He knew,” she continues to Stiles. “He told one of his accomplices to kill this guy while he was here, give him more of an alibi.”

Deucalion, who is still sitting in the interrogation room, turns to the window (which shouldn’t be see-through) and smiles. Lydia can hear Stiles shudder.

—-

Everyone in the department knows that Stiles and Lydia always work the same cases.

Sure, Allison’s a good detective and Scott is really good with empathising, but Lydia can’t really work unless Stiles is around. He’s her constant in a turbulent world. They know each other well, so well that’s it not hard to guess what question the other will ask, or what lead they’ll decide to pursue.

_“So, Gareth London was driving home,” says Stiles, pulling out his ball of red string, the one he always uses during cases. “And he ran out of gas.”_

_“That’s why we found his car on the highway,” says Lydia._

_“But why would he have just left his car?” Stiles attaches one end of the string to a pin representing where they found the car and the other to a picture of a house nearby. “The Wilsons, who live here, said they didn’t see anything.”_

_Lydia starts to catch on, cogs in her brain staring to turn. She rises from where she was sitting on her desk. “Lie. Gareth must’ve gone to them for help, which means they’re covering something, or someone up.”_

_Stiles turns to smile at her. “Didn’t Danny say they had a kid in jail?”_

_“Just released, actually.”_

_It’s much easier to solve a case when you click with your partner_ is what they had said at the academy.

—-

Allison and Scott go in to interrogate Deucalion this time, and it’s not pretty. He runs figurative rings around the both of them, and by the time they leave Lydia’s sure they knew less than when they started. Things get even worse when his attorney marches in, squawking about she should’ve been called ‘ _immediately_ ’. 

“My client is not a stranger to incompetence from the law, Agent Martin.”

Seriously, attorneys are fucking annoying – especially when they start pulling stupid technicalities out of their ass, which is what they tend to do when they know their client is guilty. The attorney Deucalion’s hired spouts every loophole in the book, until Lydia just walks out, deaf to her protests.

“We’re going to have to let him go,” sighs Deaton. Allison opens her mouth, but he cuts her off with a raised hand. “It doesn’t matter that he’s evidently guilty. His attorney is already threatening to sue.  But, keep surveillance on him.”

So basically, Deaton tells them to call it a day. Deucalion walks out a couple of minutes later.

Lydia drives home in a controlled fury, ignoring Stiles’ polite offer of a lift. She flings her apartment door open and dumps her bag on the cabinet, ready to relax, or maybe call her mother and rage about shit over the phone –when she notices her hallway rug is way out of place.

Something hard hits her round the head. She’s down in seconds.

—-

When Lydia comes to, she finds herself tied tightly to a kitchen chair with a gag stuffed in her mouth.

Kali, one of Deucalion’s favourite accomplices, sits across the table, smirking. “Don’t even think about fighting, Lydia. Even if you do manage to get out of that, we’re all here waiting to catch you.” Lydia fumes silently, huffing behind the thick fabric on her lips. This bitch is the one Lydia hates most.

"And if you be a good little girl when you’re here, maybe we’ll kill your friends quickly when they arrive. That’s why you’re here, after all. Bait."

Hours pass, and Lydia does nothing but fidget aimlessly, conscious of Kali’s warning. The ropes and duct tape (overkill, or what?) dig into her wrists and ankles. She can see snow falling through the window and wonders vaguely whether she’s still in New York. How could she have been so stupid as to get herself into this ridiculous situation?It’s going to get everyone Lydia cares about killed.

And it will be all her fault.

—-

_“Come and find her,” repeats the computerised message, over and over. Stiles wants to be sick, he wants to grab the nearest damaging object and hurl it someone. He’d just reached his apartment when Allison had called, wondering where Lydia was._

_“Get that bastard back here now,” orders Deaton, breathing heavily. “I want everything from him. Everything.” Allison nods vigorously and a dark expression crosses her face, one that only comes out when someone she cares about is in danger. Scott turns to leave too, but Stiles catches his arm._

_“You know we’re not gonna get anything out of him,” he says urgently, desperate to find Lydia. It’s like there’s a monster in his stomach, clawing, scratching to get out. “We have to do something ourselves.”_

_Scott seems torn between trailing after Allison, and him, but eventually dips his head in agreement. “What should we do?”  
_

_Stiles, still overcome with fury, looks over at the attorney. “We get to her.”_

_—-_

“Have you sent the video yet?” asks Kali. Ennis nods.

_“Stiles calm down,” soothes Scott, noticing his friends’ white taut knuckles on the steering wheel. He receives a glare for his troubles. “Just don’t crash the car dude.”_

_—-_

Another couple of hours later, there’s a change in the air. The other members of the Alpha Pack seem to filter out, leave even. Lydia is about to breathe a sigh of relief before Kali comes back in. She steps into a darkened corner of the kitchen, and places a finger to her upturned lips. The front door smashes, and someone stumbles in.

"Lydia," breathes Stiles, emerging from the kitchen doorway. Lydia shakes her head desperately, trying to raise her bound hand to point out Kali in the shadows, but she can’t. He holsters his gun and hurries over to her, ripping off the duct tape on her legs. The gag is still in her mouth however, and he fumbles to undo it. She yells at him, but he doesn’t understand her hysterical mumbling. Kali steps out of the shadows, holding a short, gleaming knife. Lydia struggles more, wriggling, screaming at Stiles to look behind him.

She swears her heart stops when she sees Kali slam the knife into Stiles’ gut.  
   
“Stiles!” shrieks Lydia, muffled against the tight gag. She watches him crumple to the kitchen floor with a thud, lifeless and choking, staining the white tiles with red, red blood. He curls up into a ball, shuddering and clutching feebly at the wound with a weak hand. Kali drops the knife and it lands with an echoing clatter. She looks at Lydia directly; smiling with that grin she’ll remember in her nightmares.  
   
“Like I said, Lydia,” she smirks, slightly breathless with excitement. “No point in fighting.” She grabs Lydia from behind, and drags her out to the front of the cabin where Scott is pushing himself up off the ground, gun lying far off in the snow. Lydia continues struggling, kicking out and sobbing against the gag. She can feel salty tears run down her face. _Oh god, oh god, he’s dead, he’s dead._

"Let her go!" yells Scott, also struggling. He looks pale, so pale and terrified. They shouldn’t have to be doing this; they shouldn’t be stuck in some godforsaken cabin in the middle of some snowy hell. Deucalion raises a knife, one much longer and duller than the one buried into Stiles.

_He’s dead, he’s dead._  
   
“Let’s play a game, Scott,” says Deucalion, grabbing Scott’s trembling hand and slamming it down onto the humongous stump. “I’m going to ask you some questions, and every one you get right, you get to keep one of your fingers. Exciting, huh?”

Scott pales even more, as if that was possible, and tries to extract his hand. “No, no don’t please,” he begs, near to tears. Deucalion smiles widely, relishing the moment, and raises the knife.

Before he can do anything, however, a single shot rings out and Deucalion drops to the ground with a nice wide bullet hole in his chest.

Relief, pure relief, sweeps through Lydia, as Isaac helps Scott up and pulls the bitch Kali away and cuffs her. Allison comes over and takes off her gag and bounds gently. She lets herself sink into her comforting arms as EMTs and agents flood the cabin and the surroundings. “It’s okay Lydia, it’s okay,” mumbles Allison, over and over again.

—-

“You’re an idiot,” Lydia snaps, slamming the coffee cup down and throwing in heaps of sugar. She needs the sweet taste, she was kidnapped dammit. Stiles smiles weakly, still looking unnaturally pale (even for him), especially against the dark blue hospital sheets. Thankfully, the EMTs managed to get him into the hospital in time, but he lost quite a lot a blood. “You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t though,” he replies, shifting slightly and wincing. His torso is covered in clean, tightly wrapped bandages. “I’m fine.”

Lydia glares at him, continuing her passive aggressive coffee making. She doesn’t know what to say without revealing everything – from her real reason for being so worried to the fact she can’t even admit it. “It doesn’t matter that you’re fine now. You could’ve bled out in a fucking kitchen. A kitchen!”

“You know Lydia, unless the Alpha Pack have a time machine, nothing bad is gonna happen, okay?” He grips her shaking hand, covered in bandages, and squeezes it. “ _I’m fine_.” His eyes are big, bright and wide, half doped up on intense pain meds, half filled with caring and compassion and a promise of love.

She pulls her hand away. “You’re still a fucking idiot.”

“Oh come on, Lydia,” he moans, running his hand through his already messed up hair. “I should be the one worrying about you, you got _kidnapped._ ”

Now it’s her turn to be insistent. “I’m fine.” She can see Stiles’ raised eyebrows and incredulous expression from the corner of her eye. “Seriously. I only had to almost freeze to death in a freaky cabin and watch my friend get stabbed by a crazy psycho.”

"Friend?" grins Stiles, a devious glint in his eye. "I always thought we were a little more than that."

A large butterfly bomb explodes in Lydia’s stomach at the words. She sips at her fresh coffee, trying to keep her cool, because _hello this has been her dream for at least a couple of months_. “Is that so, Stilinski?” she manages to quips, sealing her mouth shut after it. She can’t quite believe this is actually happening.

“Well, yeah,” nods Stiles. “I mean, I didn’t become a detective for nothing.” His tired face lights up mischievously. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Miss Martin.” _Her_ face heats in up in a flush again, and he grins.

Lydia raises her eyebrows. “Well, Stilinski, maybe we should act on that.”

And before she can lose her nerve (seriously where is this adrenaline coming from?) she leans over and kisses him. It’s soft and sweet and all-consuming as he kisses her back with vigour. They break away and look into each other’s eyes - before the moment is ruined by Stiles whooping and calling Scott, confirming the success of his ten-year-plan.

—-

“Victim has two gunshot wounds,” says Jackson, handing coffee out. He looks disgruntled to be stuck here, but after all that Alpha business the powers that be decided Lydia needed a senior agent around. “No blood splatter so he was obviously placed here, meaning we have a crime scene somewhere – and for fucks sake Stilinski, what part of _paid leave_ don’t you _get_?”

Lydia swivels to see Stiles walking over to her, still with a little difficulty she notes, from the police barrier. “I’m just too invested in my job, Whittemore. What have we got?”

“You’re such a fucking weirdo,” mutters Jackson, shaking his head. “And you’re too late for my incredible   forensic examinations. Ask your buddy McCall.” He crouches, pulling out a small magnifying glass and examining strands of the victim’s hair.

Stiles grips her hand tightly and Lydia knows he will never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I actually ended it on that.


End file.
